


heart of a lion

by Iolaire02



Series: doubtful hearts and sly minds [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Godric is Overprotective, Historical Figures, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Road Trip, destinationless roadless trip, minus the road, roadless trip i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:27:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25283854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolaire02/pseuds/Iolaire02
Summary: Godric Gryffindor is so much more than a brave man with a sword.
Relationships: Godric Gryffindor & Original Female Character
Series: doubtful hearts and sly minds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831762
Kudos: 6





	heart of a lion

It is the year 960, and Godric Gryffindor is born to a prominent family. His father is a nobleman who can trace the magic in his family tree for generations. (This is a man, though, who knows better than most that having magic run through your veins does not mean you are superior. This is a man who has fought against, and lost to, the talents of a non-magical more than once.) Godric’s mother is the youngest daughter of Adarnase IV, and is the first in her family to be born with magic. (The story is that she married Sparapet Abbas, a cruel man from whom she was lucky enough to escape.) 

“You must fight for what is right,” his mother tells him years later, “and sometimes fighting means running away, for even a man gifted with all the power in the world is not automatically a good man; following in the footsteps of the ones before you does not always mean that what you are doing is right. Forge your own path, Godric, break the mould and do what is right, and then you will be the best of us all.” (He takes her words to heart, builds his life around them, helps build a _school_ around them.)

Godric grows up in the Caucasus with three older brothers and a younger sister, all with magic in their blood. His brothers come and go over the years, regaling Godric and Glykeria with stories of their conquests and accomplishments. They become well known for their talents; Garm - the eldest - is applauded for his talents as an Illusionist. Gwydion is a feared Cosmic practitioner. Gavriil, too, is feared for his abilities as a Necromancer, able to raise the armies of the dead to fight his enemies, which are many, though few are unwise enough to confront him. For years, Godric and his sister listen in awe, astounded by their brothers’ adventures, desperate for their own. And then Gwydion, able to harness the power of the very stars, is killed in his sleep by a lowly Hedge Magician; Godric and Glykeria share a glance upon hearing the news. _All the power in the world_ , it says, _will not protect us from fear._

* * *

Glykeria marries Andronicus, a stable boy with not even a last name to his name. At first, before he sees how his sister looks at the man, Godric disapproves. He grows to like Andronicus, though, and tells himself that he has always been too quick to judge. Soon enough, Godric is anticipating the birth of his sister’s child as much as his brother-in-law is.

Andronicus is not there the day Glykeria goes into labor. Glykeria, gifted in Healing magic, knows that something is wrong almost at once, and her wide eyes meet Godric’s. He sees her fear, and for once in his life, he follows orders without question, pouring his magic into his efforts, desperate to save them. He is beyond exhausted, weaker than he has ever been, his magic nearly depleted, when Glykeria grasps his hand, and says “Save my baby. No matter what happens, don’t let my baby die.” 

He swallows hard enough to be heard, looks at his little sister, and asks “What about you?” She smiles at him, and her sadness swallows her fear, and he _screams_. All the screams in the world cannot save her, and so he does the next best thing and saves her daughter. “All the power in the world,” he whispers to the dead, holding his niece to his chest, waiting for Andronicus to return, “all the power in the world, and I still would not have been able to save you. All the power in the world, and I would have sacrificed it all for you.”

There is a whisper in his ear, a soft brush of wind across his cheek, and he knows: he would have given everything for her to live, but she would not have wanted him to.

Andronicus returns home late that night to find Godric holding his daughter. “And how is Glykeria?” he asks, and needs no answer, for the devastation in Godric’s eyes tells him more than enough. He looks down at his daughter with cold eyes, and says “Let me hold little Bremya,” and something inside Godric shatters. 

“She is your _daughter_ , not a burden,” he tells Andronicus, “do not do this to her when you know the power of names as well as anyone.” 

Andronicus sneers at him, says “you take her, then, if you are so eager to forget what she is, what she has _done_.” 

Godric stares at him in disbelief. “She is a child, not even a day old, and you choose to label her a burden?” There is no remorse in his gaze; Godric does not recognize the man in front of him anymore, does not see the man his sister loved. 

“I _loved_ Glykeria,” Andronicus roars at him, “and Bremya has stolen her from me. I cannot love a child that would kill its mother to survive.” 

Godric knows there is no hope, but he still begs. “Think about what you are doing, brother. Glykeria made me promise to save the child, no matter what happened. She loved her, why are you unable to do the same?”

Years later, Andronicus’ final words clatter through his head. “I cannot love Bremya because you so obviously do. Tell me, Godric, how can you live with yourself knowing that you let your sister die? How can you live with yourself, knowing that you love her _murderer_? Leave, now, and take the burden with you.”

Godric is an Archmage, in tune with the Earth beneath his feet. And still, even with all the power in the world at his fingertips, he is unable to rewrite the past.

He asks himself what is right, asks himself the question every day, as he travels away from the Caucasus Mountains, away from his family, away from his old life. On his bad days, when he is filled with bitterness, he thinks that he has been right in the past, back when he expressed his disapproval regarding Andronicus. But, he reminds himself, Glykeria loved her husband, just as she loved Godric, and their family, and her daughter. Was she wrong to love her husband simply because he could not find it within himself to love his daughter? 

It is right, he finally decides, to love anyone who will allow it, as well as those who will not. _It is right to love family_ , he thinks as he makes his way further and further from his home, Bremya in his arms, or on his back, clinging tight to him. _It is right to carry burdens_. His mother’s words from all those years ago carry him through the long days that sprawl before him: he forges his own path because he knows that, more than anything, it is _right_ that his niece be loved, and since her own father cannot love her, Godric will take her somewhere that she will not feel like a burden. He does not know where he is going, only that it is no longer right for him to follow in the footsteps of the men before him.

He is twenty-one when Bremya asks about her name. “It means burden,” he tells her because he refuses to lie. “Your father called you that when he learned of your mother’s death. Magic accepted it.” She looks at him with tears in her eyes, and he reaches out for her. She jerks away, and he crouches down to look her in the eye, his chest tight and painful. “You are a child,” he tells her, “your mother’s death was not your fault. She did not blame you; she loved you,” he tells Bremya, when she is ready to listen. 

“My name means burden,” she says, with all the wisdom of a five-year-old. “You said it was given to me by my father. But you are as good as my father now; why didn’t you change it?”

Godric sighs. “Magic accepted the name given you by your father. I cannot change your name, and I do not know that I would if I could.” She looks at him, wide eyed and betrayed. “It is just a name, Bremya. A name is not indicative of the person who wears it. And,” he says, more sincere than he’s ever been, “we must all carry our burdens. You may have been a burden to him, but I am the one who carried you; I am the one who loved you. I am the one who realized that living without burdens is an impossibility. I cannot live without you because I love you, and your name has nothing to do with it. Know who you are, Bremya. Know what you must carry, and let your name be a reminder - not that you are a burden, but that you will carry burdens. You will carry yourself through your life. Your name means burden, but you are not one. It is you that chooses what you are, not your name. So who are you?”

* * *

Godric and Bremya have finally found a place to spend the night; Egypt is mostly desert, and finding anywhere with a bed has been a chore. Godric keeps a close eye on Bremya as he shells out the money required for a room for the night; she is a beautiful child, and quite exotic looking in this establishment, with her flaming hair that matches his own, and freckled skin. He has seen how the men look at her as she flits through the marketplace, her hand held tightly in his. His fingers slip beneath his cloak, wrapping around the sword hanging at his hip. Bremya has her own knife, he knows, but he would rather she not need to use it. There is the movement of tanned skin in the corner of his eye, and a flash of red, and Godric is already turning, his sword half drawn. It is nothing; Bremya is still in sight, the splash of color only a man lowering himself onto the ground near the fire. He is just paranoid, but he still splits his attention between the coins he is counting and his niece, who has whirled away again. 

The spells Godric had cast when they first arrived in Egypt are working wonders; he can understand the words spilling from the mouths of the residents. He stiffens when he hears a “Hello, pretty girl,” realizing that he has once again lost sight of Bremya. 

He turns to see her arm held by a man not much older than him. The ground trembles beneath his feet, but to use magic in this place would be to sign his death warrant. Instead, Godric reaches for his sword again, eyeing the men surrounding his niece. She frowns at them, tries to tug her arm out of an unyielding grip. “I am Bremya,” she says, “I choose my own burdens.” 

And then there is a flash of silver, and a quiet groan, and liquid red, and Godric leaps into action; he will not kill these men, though they certainly deserve it. Instead, he bruises them with the flat of his blade, gets them away from Bremya. The man holding onto her deserves no such reprieve; Godric sheaths his sword, sneers at the man, “Do not _touch_ her,” and watches in grim satisfaction while the man’s eyes widen in surprise just before Godric’s knuckles hit his nose. He slumps to the floor, and Godric scoops Bremya up, returning to the man he’d been trying to rent a room from.

He slaps a handful of coins onto the table, tells the astonished man, “For all your trouble,” and walks out. He will not have Bremya sleep in a place where he cannot ensure her safety. They will sleep on worn fabrics behind wards of Godric’s own making underneath the stars.

“Uncle,” Bremya says, “tell me the story of the lion in the sky.” And he does. 

“The lion is meant to represent the lion killed by Heracles as one of his twelve labors. It is said that the lion’s skin is impenetrable, and that Heracles choked it to death, and later wore its skin.” He thinks she is asleep, and he stares up at the stars, waiting for sleep to come. 

She turns her face toward him, her big eyes liquid beneath the light of the stars. “Why did he have to kill the lion?” 

Godric flicks his eyes towards her, focuses back up at the glittering constellations sprawled across the inky sky, and says “Heracles killed his family out of anger. The Gods decided that he needed to pay for his crimes, and so they assigned him impossible tasks in exchange for an impossible forgiveness.” 

Her voice is soft and half asleep and curious. “So he had to kill yet another being in order to atone for the crime of killing?” 

He nods, though he knows she cannot see it in the darkness. “The stories say that the lion was terrorizing a city called Nemia.”

She is eight and her words ring true. “Killing a monster to atone for the murder of innocents does not absolve him. Heracles is no hero.”

He smiles fondly into the darkness. “He is not a hero for killing the lion, or stealing golden apples, or capturing Cerberus, but sometimes heroes do bad things, Bremya. Sometimes a hero makes the wrong choice, sometimes they leave destruction in their wake. But sometimes, heroes protect people from a deadly boar, or capture golden hinds without hurting them. Sometimes, heroes force rivers to obey them so that they can clean out a stable filled with other people’s messes.”

 _“_ Sometimes,” she whispers,“a hero will unleash his rage upon those threatening a loved one. And sometimes, his rage will leave behind bruised bodies and broken noses and _living_ men.”

Godric can feel the power in the Earth roiling beneath him, knows that it is at his command. And yet… all the power in the world, and he would not change a thing.

* * *

They are near Kiev, and darkness is falling when he notices the warm flickering of fire casting shadows against the buildings that line the streets. If he listens hard enough, he can make out the scrambled warble of voices cheering. He cannot help the shiver that wracks his body. “Hush,” he tells Bremya. _“_ We mustn’t be heard. Quiet now; we cannot stay here tonight.” 

She looks up at him, eyes shadowed in the dim light. “What is happening, Uncle?” He swallows. He does not keep things from her, but she is a _child_. She does not need to know of the atrocities committed with fire. He does not get a choice in the matter, for a cry goes up in the silence of his hesitation; he cannot unhear it, cannot pretend to have missed it. 

“Burn the witch!” someone shouts, and it is repeated, again and again, like an echo. This is a cry filled with jubilation, yet the words send a deep cold to sink into his bones. 

“They are going to _kill_ someone! We cannot just walk away, Uncle. We must _help_ them.” She tugs at his hand, and shame richochetes through his body. 

He stares at his niece. “ _We_ will not be helping anyone, Bremya. You will hide in this alcove, where you are safe, and you will not leave. I will try to help this witch. And Bremya?” She looks at him unhappily, but he will not put her in more danger than she is already in, and he knows she will obey. “If I have not returned within an hour, you must get out of this city as quickly as you can. Do not get caught, do not try to find me, only run. Do you understand?” Her eyes widen, and she nods, her chin trembling, before throwing her arms around his waist and squeezing tight.

“Please come back,” she whispers, “you told me that we choose our own burdens, Uncle. Choose me. Please.” Godric nods, pushes her back into the alcove, taps his wand to the crown of her head, and watches as she blurs out of sight. 

“Stay,” he whispers desperately, before he turns on his heels to follow the firelight that flickers against the walls. _I have already chosen you to be my burden_ , he thinks but does not say.

Finding the witch-burning procession is easier than he expects. The firelight grows brighter and the voices grow louder for every step Godric takes. He does not understand how people derive such joy from the idea of burning someone alive; even the thought of it makes him feel sick with rage. Of course, he is also disgusted with himself; he knew what the light and murmurings meant long before he heard the people’s cry, and he was prepared to leave someone to burn at the stake. And to think that Bremya called him a hero. _What kind of hero_ , he wonders bitterly _, leaves an innocent to die a horrible death?_ _There is no crime in the world that would make death by fire even remotely acceptable_ , he tells himself, then abruptly changes his mind. _If anyone were to harm Bremya, I might be inclined to subject them to such a fate_.

He is so lost in thought that he catches up to the line before he knows it, almost bumps into one of the last men in the proceedings, in fact. He takes a deep breath, blanks his face, and follows along to the pit where a thick wooden post waits. He keeps his eyes fixed on the post as three people approach it, the figure in the middle significantly shorter than those flanking it. Godric sucks air in through his nose, something like pride sitting in his chest when he realizes that this so-called witch is not begging or screaming for mercy. He wishes for the kind of bravery it takes to sit in silence while awaiting a painful death.

He cannot decide what to do, does not know how best to rescue this witch. He is not like Garm, able to create Illusions at whim. Nor is he able to draw power from the stars as Gwydion did. Even being able to raise a Necromantic army would cause a fitting distraction; no doubt the dead who would rise from the Earth would be those burned at the stake for the simple crime of having magic in their veins. But alas, Godric does not have the gifts of Gavriil. Instead, his prowess lies in Earth and Battle magic, and he knows that if he wants to get out of here alive, he cannot use such an obvious approach. Even he would not be able to take on so many people at once, despite their lack of magic, and he does not know what talents the bound witch possesses. 

Godric reaches deep into the Earth. The foundations of this city are weak, and so he nudges them just a bit. He does not want to destroy the home of so many people, does not wish to swallow their houses and shops and temples with the Earth. He only wants a distraction. The Earth quakes beneath his feet, tremors murmuring just enough to shake the people standing between him and the witch. A torch is thrown into the pit, and Godric reaches out with his mind, and just as the fire lands, just before it spreads to the wood, the Earth reaches out and grabs the flames, swallowing them and depriving them of the air they need to burn. The vibrations he is causing grow worse, and bits of Earth begins to dislodge themselves. The people who led him to this place cry out in fear. They run, tripping over loose dirt and displaced rocks. Godric cannot help the smile that crosses his lips.

He keeps the earthquake going for a few moments longer, sending it to follow the citizens who attended the attempted burning. He cannot risk having them return before he is gone. He approaches the witch, unties her and helps her stand. “You are safe, now,” he tells her softly. “Come with me, we cannot wait around for them to return, or they will kill us both.”

She turns her face toward him, and he is struck by how young she is; she cannot be more than fifteen. She lifts her chin, and her eyes glint in the light of the rising moon. “I know,” she says, and the light catches on a scar that cuts across her throat, “but I have too much to live for. None of us will be dying tonight.”

Movement catches his eye, and he looks down to see her hand rest on her swollen stomach. “Follow me,” he says. And she does. They make their way swiftly back through the winding alleys that Godric followed to the pit, and Godric pushes aside the debris from his earthquake to make the goings easier. Soon enough, they reach the alcove where Godric had left Bremya, and his niece comes rushing out to hug him around the waist. He taps his wand against her head once again, and she slowly fades into sight. 

“I’m Bremya Gryffindor,” she says. “What’s your name? Are you the witch we heard about? Are you going to have a baby? How old are you?” 

The witch smiles softly at Bremya. “Well met, Bremya. My name is Helga Hufflepuff.”

All the power in the Earth to save a life.


End file.
